


city girls with their ribbon bows

by evewithanapple



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 14:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10810494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: The only person looking at her now is Violet.





	city girls with their ribbon bows

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally started writing this between 1x02 and 1x03, then life got kind of crazy and I wasn't able to complete it before episodes five and six aired. So . . . just assume it takes place in some nebulous timeline before the masquerade at the end of 1x03.

"Blue's her colour," Betsey says as she sets the end of a ribbon between her teeth. "Light blue, like a robin's egg."

While she talks, Amelia stares at her reflection in the mirror. The reflection stares back, barely recognizable- not just because they had no mirrors at home until recently, and not just because the sack-back blue gown and petticoats Betsey's dressed her in are unlike anything she's ever worn before. It's not even just because her bonnet has been tossed to the side and her hair is hanging in loose, wanton waves. There's something about her face she doesn't recognize any longer: maybe the pink in her cheeks, maybe the light in her eyes, maybe the unfamiliar roundness of her chin since she's had access to regular meals. She can feel a transformation creeping over her, the way the pastors speak of the Holy Spirit entering one's soul- but she doesn't think it's that holy.

"Nah." At the sound, Amelia glances over her shoulder to where Violet is lying on her stomach on the bed, one hand propping up her chin. She pops a strawberry into her mouth and gives Amelia an appraising look. "Green's better. Goes with her eyes."

Amelia flushes. Green and blue are both new introductions to her wardrobe- until now, she's only ever garbed herself in blacks and greys. She feels wholly unqualified to decide which colour she should be wearing, when she's not used to wearing any colours at all. She also doesn't want to insult Betsey, who's been kind enough to undertake this whole endeavour, or Violet, who-

Well. Violet invited her. That was reason enough to want to please her. 

"I haven't got any green," Betsey says with a pout, "so blue will have to do." She leans in close as she draws a choker around Amelia's neck, and Amelia can smell sour beer on her breath, in addition to the strawberries. She'd brought the fruit herself- she thought that, since Betsey and Violet had invited her, she ought to bring something to thank them. And Violet had said she didn't want money. But she seemed to like the berries. Every time she bit into a new one, the juice ran down her chin and fingers, and she laughed as she licked them clean. Something about watching her feels improper, even profane- like she's letting her eyes linger where they've been forbidden. But every time Violet catches Amelia looking, she winks, dragging her tongue along the edge of her thumb and flicking it across her thumbnail like the promise of something sweeter. It makes Amelia's stomach churn with fear and fascination all at once.

"Stop that, Bets," Violet says, "you're going to strangle her." Her legs are up in the air behind her, leaving her skirts to fall obscenely around her knees and exposing her stockings for all to see. Amelia thinks (though she isn't sure) that Violet and Betsey probably wear nicer stockings than the coarse wool ones she's accustomed to- after all, their culls must want smooth fabric under their fingers as they unwrap their prizes. Amelia imagines hooking her fingers under the edge of Violet's stockings and dragging them down, soft cotton against warm skin, and flinches.

"Oi!" Betsey says, stepping back and tossing her hands in the air. "I can't lace you in if you keep moving!"

Amelia flushes. Before she can apologize, Violet swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands, sending her skirts waterfalling to the ground. "Give it a rest, Bets," she says, "you need another drink." She brushes past Betsey on her way to Amelia and the mirror, and settles her hands around Amelia’s waist when she reaches her. Amelia sucks in a breath on impulse, tightening under Violet’s touch. “Stays all right?”

“Yes,” she breathes, “yes, they’re fine.” The stays aren’t really that much tighter than she’s used to- it’s just that the neckline of the dress is low enough that her bosom (what little of it there is, anyway) is pushed up against the edge of the stomacher. Wearing this dress makes her feel _on display_ in a way she never did before, even when she was preaching in the streets. Anyone (any man) looking at her could cast their eyes all over her body- could decide whether she was worth their time and money and demand that she give them what she’s implicitly put on offer.

But the only person looking at her now is Violet. And Violet’s always offered her company freely.

Violet picks up a lock of Amelia’s hair and twists it around her finger, mouth turned contemplatively downwards. Then the takes a bigger fistful and pulls it upwards, and tying it in place with another one of Betsey’s ribbons. The rest of Amelia’s hair, she leaves loose, though she rubs a bit of tallow on her hands – she takes it directly from the base of the candlestick – and twists her locks into curls that hang strangely and stiffly against the back of Amelia’s neck. Amelia isn’t sure what hairstyle she’s trying to replicate – Mrs. Quigley always wears her hair in a great puff around her head, and the harlots in her employ either employ massive wigs, or force their hair into elaborate buns and braids. This, at least, is simpler- it’s a style she could employ herself, if she ever found the courage.

“There,” Violet says finally, stepping backwards. Amelia lets out a long breath that she’d kept trapped inside her chest while Violet was standing at her shoulder. “You ought to have rouge, if we were doing things proper. But I don’t need any, and Betsey’s red from drink all the time anyway, so we haven’t got any.”

“Bugger off,” Betsey says from her seat by the window. The bottle in her hand softens her argument somewhat.

“So-” Violet gives one of Amelia’s ribbons a light tug, “-what do you think?”

Amelia looks at herself in the mirror and catches her breath. She’d kept watch of her looks all through these proceedings, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet- somehow she hadn’t been prepared for the full effect. The choker Betsey had tied around her throat sits nestled in the hollow of her neck, just a little metal heart shining dully against her skin. The dark blue of the choker doesn’t quite match the paler blue of the gown, but since the hair ribbons are also of a different shade, it doesn’t stand out too terribly much. The stays around her waist mean that she actually _has_ a waist for the first time- a smaller one than she would have expected, for all she sees herself in the mirror every day. The ribbons in her hair float against her scalp and neck, standing out against the dark of her hair and the pinkness of her face. That’s new, too- she’s never known herself to blush overmuch, but she’s been a vivid shade of rose since she stepped into the room and let Violet and Betsey divest her of her old dress. The dress itself is still lying where Violet tossed it carelessly over a chair, looking safe and harmless, but – Amelia must admit, even to herself – not especially appealing. Not next to the bright blue gown she’s wearing now, that pushes up her breasts and blooms with lace over her elbows and makes her look-

-she meets Violet’s eyes in the mirror-

- _beautiful_?

“You’re pretty as a picture,” Violet says, as though she could read Amelia’s thoughts. She puts her hands on Amelia’s waist, which both unnerves and steadies her. Amelia expects her to say something further, something to the effect of _you’d fetch as great a price as any of us_ , but she doesn’t; she just lets the thought hang in the air, rich with unspoken possibilities.

“Am I?” is all Amelia can think to say. To agree would be vanity; to disagree would offer insult. No one ever taught her how to accept such a compliment.

Violet casts a quick look over her shoulder at Betsey, who’s gazing absent-mindedly out the window, then presses a brief kiss to Amelia’s cheek. Amelia feels her breath catch.

“Yeah,” Violet says. “Yeah, I think you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> The sack-back dress (also known as the _robe à la française_ ) was very popular in the mid-to-late 1700s and looked like [this](http://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/159485)\- we see Violet wearing a similar style in 1x05, when she's walking away from Amelia's house. ([x](http://i773.photobucket.com/albums/yy11/screencaps_galore/vlcsnap-2017-05-03-13h55m28s934_zpsd0fy1nut.png))


End file.
